Tryouts, Tabasco, and the Cloven-Hoofed Chaos Queen

Youth baseball. America’s pastime. A beautiful blend of sunflower seeds, dirt-stained pants, and dreams of greatness…
And apparently, a chance for our guest star to remind everyone that class is a concept they have never heard of.

Let’s rewind.

Before we dive into the drama, we’re taking a moment to retire The Storyteller’s nickname. The kid has leveled up. He’s not spinning tales anymore. He’s not escaping barefoot from the backyard like a feral Disney side character. He’s growing up, asking for what he needs, telling the truth, even when it’s hard, and just generally being awesome. So from here on out, in honor of this baseball-themed post and to show my age a little, we’ll be calling him Griffey Jr.

Because the kid has earned it.

Tryouts: Sponsored by Wind, Dirt, and Doom

Thursday night rolls around. Tryout day. The league gives the kids numbers, runs them through some drills, tries to balance the teams. That’s the idea, anyway. Last year’s “Pirates” say otherwise, three years of dominance and mercy-rule endings would say otherwise. But sure, tryouts are definitely about fairness.

It’s your classic tundra evening, overcast skies, 40 mph wind that peels your skin off, and a layer of misery settled over every child forced to stand in it.

Enter Liam and Griffey Jr., three minutes late courtesy of construction detours. Griffey gets his number and heads to the field. Some other kid yells out his name. Cool. A school friend. I find a twig to hide behind and watch the chaos unfold.

The coaches are screaming into a wind tunnel. The kids are kicking dirt, talking Minecraft, sitting down mid-drill. Peak focus. I glance over at the kid who called out to Griffey. He looks familiar.  But I can’t place him.

And then, like a cold front of pure dread, she appears.

The Sky Darkens…

I’m trying not to barf from the wind pressure when a woman walks by and says, “Hey Liam.” I nod. Keep walking. I don’t recognize her and I’m not in the mood to chit-chat while my ears scream from the wind.

And then Griffey comes to grab his bat, and this woman walks right up, hugs him, and whispers something in his ear.

Cue  the ominous music. The clouds shift. The temperature drops another 10 degrees. Somewhere, a crow caws.

It’s Felicia.

Cloven hooves and all.

Suddenly it all clicks. The kid who called out to Griffey? Tabasco.

Yes, we’re calling him that.

This is the same kid who once cut Space Cadet with a pocket knife and poured hot sauce into the wound. (He is the product of Felecia and all her class act parenting, its not his fault, and we don't bash kids. That's as mean as we will get)

And now? He’s in the same baseball league as Griffey Jr.

Fantastic.

Tryouts and Trigger Warnings

Now I know what we’re dealing with. I keep my distance. I lurk near the dugout like a windswept raccoon, making sure Griffey sees me but staying far, far away from the Hoofed One.

Then strolls in Tabasco’s dad—the guy who is somehow cool with hanging out with the man who fucked his wife and followed them down here. I don't have a clever nickname for him yet. Either he’s a saint, or he’s made entirely of wet cardboard. 

He looks around politely like he’s trying not to look for me.

Felicia whispers to him like they’re in a spy movie.

And then—because subtlety is for people with shame—she points directly at me and loudly announces, “Over there!”

I wave. Because what else do you do when a grown woman acts like she’s in an episode of Mean Girls: The Dugout Years?

Baseball, Passive-Aggression, and Performance Parenting

The kids are swinging at tees now, getting their last shots in before heading home.
Tabasco cracks a few decent hits. Good for him.
He gathers his stuff and joins Felicia…
But they don’t leave.

Nope.

They sit down.
She’s waiting.
Waiting for Griffey Jr.
Waiting to make sure he sees her.
Waiting to get her moment.

And just as Griffey knocks two clean grounders and heads toward the fence?
She sprints to the gate.
Beats me there.
Gives him a hug.
And then quietly shouts:

"I'LL SEE YOU TOMORROW BUDDY! I LOVE YOU! I HOPE YOU ARE SAFE!"

Because subtlety is dead, and Felicia killed it.
Seriously—Jessica must be so proud.

The Drive Home & A classy Farewell

We go our separate ways. Griffey’s glowing.
He’s jazzed about the hits he made. Wants to play catch when we get home.
Meanwhile, I’m a walking icicle, exhausted, and ready to collapse. I have to break his heart and tell him no.
We get in the truck, buckling up. Griffey’s still jabbering away, and then…
A van pulls in behind me.
Sits there.
Waits until I make eye contact in the mirror.
And then?
Middle finger. Right there in the mirror.
Felicia.
With Tabasco and her daughter in the car.
She really though “let me flip off another parent in front of three children, in a parking lot full of children”
And people wonder why I write this blog.

Maybe I'm not so bad

As I’m backing out and heading home, I can’t help but think:
Am I a good parent?

Probably not.

But compared to Felicia?
I’m winning the damn parenting Super Bowl.
In case you have not made the connection yet....... we now get to see either Richard or Felicia multiple times a week.
To say I am ecstatic is an understatement.

But hey,

It’s fine.

We’re fine.

Everything’s fine.